


Nevermore

by iamRemedy



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Cop Morty gets killed off instantly, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Character Death, Mortys killing Ricks, Reader is a Police Officer, Reader is guilty, Ricks don't care about Mortys, Slow Burn, for now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-15 22:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18082139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamRemedy/pseuds/iamRemedy
Summary: He was just a kid. It was your job to take care of him, despite his protests. But you couldn't even do that, and it'll haunt you until the day you die.





	1. Endurance

Time 

PM  **05:32:** 05

* * *

 

  
Music you've tried your hardest to tune out plays loudly as the car speeds down the highway. You lean forward and make a move to turn it down -  _to save your eardrums_ \- but Morty, one of many fourteen-year-old police officers on the Citadel who's oddly grumpy for his age, swats your hand away without looking away from the road. You pull back and cradle your hand against your chest, rubbing where he'd hit it. You should be the one driving, considering you're the responsible adult in the vehicle. That's not what you say, however.

"I'm surprised you haven't gone deaf yet, Officer Smith," you comment, your voice raised to be heard over the stereo.

"I-I'm used to it," Morty stutters in response. "A-A-And what did I say a-about all that professionalism and— and shit? Just— Just call me Morty."

"Duly noted," you respond with a faint smile, leaning back in your seat. "So, tell me about this case."

"Uh, a worker at the Creepy Morty contacted the authorities about t-two hours ago," Morty says. "He— He said he'd been working when h-he heard gunshots in another room." 

Your brow furrows. "It's a homicide." 

"E-Exactly," Morty says with a grim smile. Morty is a bit of a quirky character, but you suppose all Mortys are. He's different, however, you came to notice once paired up with him. He's more intelligent than the others, but not cocky. He's also more reserved and... oppressed, perhaps. But the two of you have been partners for almost a year, and you'd like to think you've developed into good friends.

"H-Hey, we're at the crime scene," Morty announces, and you jolt slightly. You hadn't even realized you were zoning out. 

"Uh.. yeah, thanks." You climb out of the car, giving the gun in your holster a quick pat -  _just to make sure it's there_ \- then follow Morty to the entrance of the nightclub. "So, besides it being a murder, what else do we know?" 

"Um, a— a R-Rick from the autopsy apartment detected traces of a f-foreign blood type," Morty replies. "The M-Morty wasn't killed by another Morty o-or a Rick, but other than that..."

He doesn't continue that train of thought, opting to draw his gun as he approaches the door. "Ke-Keep on your toes," he huffs before opening the door. He points the gun in multiple directions before deciding the coast is clear. The club must have been evacuated after the murder. "Ta-Take a look around. Tell me if you, uh— if you find anything." 

"Got it." You take a moment to take in your surroundings before you spot the victim.

He looks just like your partner— you didn't expect any less, though, considering they're both Mortys. The only obvious differences you can spot are the two bullet holes in his chest. He had been shot in the shoulder then again, the second bullet hitting him right in the heart. He died moments later of internal bleeding. You hate to say that you see this everyday in your line of work.

You walk around the body, searching for any other wounds but find none. Some kind of gun is the definite murder weapon. "Be on the lookout," you announce so your partner can hear you. "If the killer is still here, they may be armed." 

"D-Di-Did you find something?" Morty asks, standing beside you now, arms crossed over his chest.

"This Morty was shot twice. A bullet to the heart is what killed him," you respond, chewing your lower lip in concentration. You look to the bullet wounds and find a trail of blood leading to another part of the establishment.

"B-But he wasn't attacked here," Morty discovers at the same time as you. "H-He— He must've crawled out here to get h-help, but didn't make it far b-before his heart stopped and h— and he died." 

You nod and glance at your partner before carefully following the trail. At the end is one of the 'private rooms', and inside is a neon pink couch alongside a table with two large splotches of red that leak onto the carpet floor. "This is where it happened," you murmur. You squint and notice more blood and scratch marks on part of the couch. "Hmm... I'm gonna call in and see if they found anything out about that foreign blood." 

"A-Alright," Morty says nonchalantly, eyes still glued to the scene before him.

You place a hand on his shoulder. "Stay safe, okay?" 

He waves you off, biting back a smile. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. I-I-I'm not a kid."  _Except for the fact that you are._

"I'll be right back," you tell him, ruffling his hair and chuckling at his whines of protest. You stride for the exit, feeling his eyes on you as you do so. Your hand is on the handle, getting ready to step outside of the club with your other hand dialing a phone number when—

_Bang!_

You feel your heart stop. It's as if time is in slow motion as you run, hearing Morty cry out in pain before  _slowly_ falling to the carpeted floor. You stare at the one who shot him and... it's you. Er, an alternate version of yourself. She's wearing skimpy, neon clothes and has a gun clutched in her grasp.

"H-H-He was going to kill me," she says, eyes wide. "Th-That's why I killed the other Morty, too. He tried to—"

You probably did the wrong thing. The correct reaction would have been to apprehend her, take her in for questioning, then worry about your partner— but you didn't have control over your own body at the moment anyways. "Fuck you," you had growled, then a bullet pierced your doppelganger's skull. 

Her body falls limp against the couch, but you don't care. You put away your gun then suddenly register what had happened in the past minute, feeling nauseous.

"Morty!" you shout, running over to aid your partner as he clutches his abdomen. You collapse to your knees at his side, not even worrying when you feel them scrape against the carpet, giving you rug burn through your pants. Your hands instantly find his, and you move them aside to apply pressure. "Morty, are you okay!? Morty?" 

Morty winces, placing a bloody hand over yours.  _Red. Red. Red. There's red everywhere. Red on his hands, red on_ your  _hands. Red beginning to pool out beneath him._ You've never hated the color red more in your entire life. "O-Oh, geez, that hurts," he hisses, eyes jammed shut.

"I know, I know. Don't worry, sweetie, you're gonna be okay," you say hurriedly, raising your right hand and resting it against his cheek. You feel your heart snap in two when he leans into your touch.

"Mm, I-I don't think I'm gonna make it," Morty mumbles, barely able to keep his eyes open. Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. 

"N-No, don't say that." Tears sting your eyes; you blink hard in an attempt to be rid of them. "Morty, listen to me. Keep your eyes open for me, okay?" 

"S-Sorry," he chuckles dryly, which instantly makes him hack up blood onto his uniform. The red is just so bright in contrast.

_He's just a kid. He can't die..._

"Don't apologize," you whisper, your voice cracking while a single tears drops onto his face. "Please..." You barely catch it, but you hear him utter your name. "Y-Yeah, Morty?" 

With a tired smile, he gives your hand a tight squeeze. "I-I-I never had a mom, b-but if I did... I-I would've wanted her to b-be ju-just like y-y-you." 

You let out a choked sob, no longer able to contain the dam that bursts upon his silent confession. You're crying so loudly at this point that your ears are ringing.

Then his hand goes limp, scraping against the carpet. His brown eyes are devoid of all light and his mouth hangs open slightly as crimson continues to pool beneath him.

You don't know how long you've been sitting there, hugging his cold body to your chest, rocking back and forth as you let out small cries. The tears stopped flowing a long while ago, it seems, and you're simply just unable to physically cry anymore. But you sob and you mourn as if you just lost your child, because it feels like you have.

You thrash and scream when they try to pull you away. Part of you cries for them to take you with him. A cop Rick you might have met somewhere along the lines of your work holds you close. Your teeth are gritted and your shoulders rack with sobs, but no sound escapes. He hides you, and you can't see the ambulance as it drives away. You can't bring yourself to realize that Morty -  _your Morty_ \- is in there, and that you'll never see him again. 

And now you're alone. Alone to silently cry as the image of Morty's lifeless eyes never leave your mind. He was all you had, and now he's gone. So, you cry.

And then you cry some more.

And then you're just so tired from crying that you fall asleep.

Then the sun rises the next day, and the Citadel continues to function even as its population decreases.

* * *

**[end of 'endurance'.]**


	2. Severance

**Three Months Later**

Time 

PM  **10:05:** 07

* * *

 

It's been over three months since your partner's death. You'd like to say you're dealing with it well, except for the fact that you're not. Most of your nights are sleepless, and you try hard to focus on work in an attempt to distract yourself. That doesn't help in the slightest, seeing as there are multiple cop Mortys at the precinct, and you had recently been added to a case involving missing Mortys. You spend hours on end going over case files, all about alternate versions of a fourteen-year-old boy with the same face as your dead partner, either MIA or found dead. At first, you'd assumed that maybe some Ricks had found a way off the Citadel and taken their Mortys with them, but now you knew better. 

Either way, your train of thought always finds its way back to his death. And you wonder... maybe there was a way you could have prevented it. 

You're currently kicking back at the Hard Rick Café, one of the only places on the Citadel with the least Mortys, drowning out any negative thoughts with shots of strong liquor. Of course, you have to deal with the one-sided flirting from all the Ricks, but it's worth it for an effective distraction. 

Your mind is hazy as you nurse your glass, silently humming along to whatever song is playing. Not even ten minutes ago, you had been playing darts with J-47 Rick and had missed the board completely, almost hitting a Morty. You'd then decided darts might not be the best idea, sitting down at your stool again.

Your phone buzzes relentlessly in your pocket, but you don't move to answer it. "Can I get a water?" you ask the Rick serving as the bartender. You'd rather not have to stumble out of bar that night. Maybe you could, at least, make it to a taxi. 

The barkeep hands you a glass of water, and you quickly down it, letting out a content sigh. "Alright, I'm gonna head out," you mumbled, fumbling around your pockets for some cash before setting down a ten. "Keep the change. Thanks for the poison." 

"S-Sure thing, toOOOUGots," the bartender Rick belches with a wink, and you grimace. "See you soon."

"Uh, yeah," you say half-heartedly.  _See you soon._ You're a regular and he knows it. 

You walk backwards towards the door and send him an awkward smile that he reciprocates with a toothy grin. You then turn around, only to practically faceplant someone's chest. "Oh, sorry," you say, stumbling a step back. The stranger lightly grips your forearms in order to keep you balanced. You have to blink a few times before you register what they're wearing. It's the same uniform sitting at the foot of your bed at home, badge and all. You have to look up to see their face, so you can only assume it's a Rick. 

You're proven correct, and the officer Rick smiles nervously at you before stepping back and rubbing his hands together. "Uh, I-I-I'm Rick," he says dumbly.

"Veeeerrryy smoooth," Bartender Rick comments from behind you.

"Talk again and I'll take you in for illegal distribution of Kalaxian Crystals," you deadpan, not even facing him. The barkeep instantly shuts up and moves to serve a Rick across the bar. You address the officer in front of you. "You were saying?" 

"R-Right, um... yeah. I'm a cop Rick from the— the precinct," he stutters in response. You can't tell if it's just the noticeable speech impediment that almost all Ricks are cursed with or if he's genuinely nervous while in your presence.

You make a show of looking up and down his entire body— sizing him up and effectively giving yourself a headrush —and sarcastically quip, "Never would've guessed." 

Rick visibly shrinks back under your scrutiny—  _very un-Ricklike of him_ —before his whole body stiffens. "Y-You're from dimension D13δ9, correct?" he asks, though you're sure he already knows.

You squint, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. "Yeah. Why?"

"You were assigned a case earlier this evening," Rick responds with more confidence. "Well,  _we_ w... Are— Are you okay?" 

You hadn't noticed until he said anything, but you had apparently started swaying slightly. Now that you think about it, you do feel a bit light-headed. Your blood pressure must be dropping now that you're on your feet, and all the alcohol is finally kicking in. "Oh yeah, yeah,  _yeah_ ," you repeat too many times, rubbing your head. "I just need to, uh..." You lose your train of thought then make a move to sit down, missing the stool entirely. 

"Okay, no," Rick says, quickly catching you and keeping you upright with an arm around your waist as he leads you to the door. "Come on, w-w-we're getting in my car." 

"Okay.." you mumble, closing your eyes as he drags you out. When you open them again, he's settling you into the passenger's seat of his cruiser and strapping you in. You wanna tell him that you don't usually wear a seatbelt but stay silent because you're feeling kinda tired. Plus, he smells nice. 

"You good?" he asks, and you just nod sluggishly. He makes sure you don't fall over then shuts the door, moving around to the other side. You rest your head against the car window, shuddering at the sudden coldness. You think about the fact that somewhere, in an alternate dimension, a version of you is helping a drunk Rick into his house or something. You also think about the fact that you're probably dead in some _other_ alternate dimension, deciding you're probably not doing  _too_ bad. 

The engine revs to life, pulling you from your strange train of thought. Quiet music plays from the radio, but Rick turns it off for a reason you don't know. "Where do you live?" he asks, buckling up and looking at you.

"Uh..." You're very drunk, apparently, and can't remember for the life of you.

"I'll figure it out," Rick sighs, hitting a button on the dash. A small screen suddenly comes out of the center, and you watch him type on it what you think is your name and dimension, but your vision is just a  _little_ hazy. "Alright, and away we go..." 

You end up zoning out and playing with the window for a good five minutes before leaving it down and letting the air cool your face. You begin to feel a bit better— not sober, but lucid. The haze in your mind has cleared enough for you to talk normally. "So... what's going on?" you ask, almost cringing at how fragile you must sound.

You see Rick glance at you for a moment before he responds, "I was... assigned as your new partner today. I-I assumed you'd show up for work, but you never did, so I came looking for you?" 

Part of you's glad he's not stuttering like a Morty anymore. "New partner, huh?" you say, picking at a piece of plastic that's beginning to peel on the car door.

"Yeah. W-W-We can make more progress that way," Rick tells you. "I, uh... The others at the precinct said it was useless to wait for you? That you only show up when absolutely necessary?" 

"Yeah. I do all my paperwork from home, but I show up to crime scenes and the likes on time," you say, watching buildings whisk by outside. "I get all my work done, so don't get your panties in a twist, Rookie." 

You see him tense up in your peripherals. Yeah, you know he's a rookie cop— you can tell by the way he acts. He's nicer than the other Ricks; probably bought into his sensitivity training a bit too much. It can be a bad thing. But it's not for you. Not at the moment, anyways. 

He doesn't say anything else for a few beats, then he asks, "How... How much did you have to drink?" 

"Two glasses, maybe three," you say silently, eyes drifting out the window. You watch as he pulls into your driveway.

Rick stops and turns off the car. "Yeah, thought so," he mutters. "Th-This your place?" You tell him _yeah_. 

Your eyes trails his figure, watching him unbuckle then climb out and make his way to your side again. You appreciate the sentiment, taking off your own seatbelt and allowing him to help you out of the car. You're able to walk on your own, and you unlock your door then head in with him following close behind.

"N-Nice place you got," Rick comments, taking a good look around. "Y-Y-You have any roommates?" 

"Nope, just me," you reply, setting your keys down on the counter. "I'm gonna go get ready. Make yourself at home." You limply gesture to your sofa. You see him carefully sit down then disappear down the hallway and into your bedroom. 

Your uniform is still at the end of your bed, right where it had been even early that day. You grab it then head into the bathroom. There, you splash cold water into your face— you shudder and sigh —then stare at your reflection. There are prominent bags beneath your eyes from lack of sleep and your hair looks like hell. You quickly tie it up into a loose ponytail, gargle some mouthwash to be rid of the terrible whiskey aftertaste, and throw on your police uniform. 

Back in your room, you grab your gun off the dresser. You hold it, turn it over in your hands, make sure the safety's on. Then, you tuck it into its holster and walk into the other room.

Rick's still sitting patiently on your sofa, hands resting neatly in his lap. He perks up at your arrival, hearing you before you even enter. 

"Alright, let's go," you say, jerking your thumb towards the door. You head out after grabbing your keys, already knowing he's behind you. "We're stopping for coffee first, though." 

* * *

**[end of 'severance'.]**


	3. Ignorance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Implied/Referenced Physical Abuse, basically real fucked-up shit directed onto a Morty

Time  
PM **11:43:** 08

* * *

  
You take long sips from a cup of coffee— which Rick had bought you, despite your protests —and stare longingly out the car window. It feels weird to be in the passenger’s seat after so long. You’ve grown accustomed to being alone, being the driver. The silence is even weirder for you. You usually play music, sometimes really loudly, because time spent with your late partner had made you used to it. But now, your ears are ringing, and you can’t stop squirming in your spot despite acting like you’re okay.

“Is— Is something wrong?” Rick asks, seeming to have noticed your state of constant movement. His voice sounds off, almost as if he’s annoyed by whatever you’re doing.

“What do you mean?” you respond absently.

“W-W-Why do you keep moving around l-like that?”

You hesitate, drink from your coffee to give yourself a moment to think of an answer. You sigh, “Can you… turn on the radio, or something?”

You expect him to just blatantly say no. You expect him to yell at you, say ‘my car, my rules’. You expect him to at least ask ‘why the fuck would I do that?’.

But he doesn’t. He does none of that. In fact, he doesn’t say anything. His eyes remain glued to the road as he leans forward slightly, and he turns on the radio. It’s quiet, but it’s there— smooth jazz dancing through the air.

You close your eyes, feeling warm from the coffee.

“Better?” Rick asks.

You just nod, swaying gently like a tree in the wind in time with the music, barely noticeable. But Rick notices, and you see him smile gently when you open your eyes again.

It seems like ages before he finally pulls up outside the crime scene— you can tell by the squad cars, the Ricks and Mortys crowding anxiously outside while officers hold them back, the fluorescent yellow police tape lining the fence saying **DO NOT CROSS**. Rick waits for the song to end. You don’t know why, and you don’t think to ask as he turns off the music along with the car.

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, observing the area from inside the vehicle. You hear him hum slightly to himself before getting out. You follow in suit and slam the door shut by accident. You don’t think about it longer than necessary, your hand reaching down to find your gun in its holster, a habit you’d become accustomed to more frequently. You’re more on guard nowadays, ready to take on anything.

You crouch beneath the police tape, nodding your greeting to another Rick cop— you can tell this one apart because he’s bigger, not in height or muscle, but more like he’s had too many donuts in his downtime. You start to head towards the entrance, but the same Rick stops your new partner. You turn on your heel and announce, “He’s with me.”

“Thank you,” Rick says with an appreciative smile as he joins you. He then steps away and begins talking with a Morty cop about the case, you assume.

You look away from the two and tune out background noise, taking in your surroundings. The house is old but stable, piles of trash decorate the porch, paint is peeling off every part of the house as it ages. You couldn’t see yourself living here. You recall a similar structure belonging to a Morty back in Morty Town who had used Kalaxian Crystals before his death. You make a mental note and decide the victim, another Rick, most likely used the drug as well. You add 'figuring out how Ricks and Mortys are obtaining the drug' to your to-do list.

“A-Are you ready to head inside?” your partner Rick asks from beside you, arms crossed over his chest.

You hadn’t expected him to show up, but you don’t jump either. You just say, “yeah,” then enter the building.

You feel your nose twitch and refrain from plugging it as you enter the house, met with the worst smell - that of the dead Rick’s corpse. The body itself is a morbid sight, one you hate to say you’ve adapted to. He’s clad in the signature long-sleeved, blue t-shirt that almost all Ricks wear, a purple suit jacket, pale blue jeans, and cowboy boots. He doesn’t seem like the kind of Rick who’d end up on this side of town, but here he is, and it seems like his face had been bashed in by a blunt object.

“Blunt force trauma,” Rick says as soon as the thought enters your mind, his eyes quickly scanning everything, in search. “If we’re lucky, the weapon might still be here.”

“Here’s hoping,” you sigh, unable to tear your eyes away from the corpse. “Hey! Someone get me some gloves.”

A Morty cop, slightly chubbier than your ex-partner had been, hurriedly rushes over to you. “A-Ah, h-h-here you go,” he stammers nervously, taking your coffee cup in exchange for a pair of rubber gloves. _He’s new_ , you conclude in your mind.

“Thanks, kid,” you say, not once making eye contact before the Morty runs off. You crouch down next to the body as you put on the gloves, and you can feel Rick hovering closely, most likely readying himself to catch you if you start to fall. You don’t blame him; your BAC is still pretty high, so you’d keep a steady eye on yourself if you were him, too.

You grab the deceased Rick’s hand and observe it closely. If there’s any type of drug on him, you won’t be able to detect it without an FPS scanner— something a Rick from the autopsy department had invented. It makes it easier to scan fingerprints and blood of Ricks, Mortys, etc. to figure out their dimension, if they’re intoxicated, and the likes.

“Can you find me an FPS scanner?” you ask Rick, holding out your hand without looking up. He doesn’t say anything, seemingly eager to help out in any way, and returns momentarily with your required tool. You thank him and laugh bitterly as you scan the corpse’s fingerprints, “Fancy shit right here. At this rate, they’ll make something that’ll make all us officers of the law completely useless.”

Rick laughs nervously at that, shifting on his feet and looking around the room. “Th-That won’t be for a _loooong time_ , though,” he says. “...h-hopefully.”

You don’t continue that conversation because the FPS scanner beeps in your hand, done scanning. “He’s been dead for… eighteen days,” you announce. “Estimated time of death is 3:45 PM.”

“No one knew he was dead o-or anything,” Rick says, watching as you stand. “A mailman Morty dropped by here early this morning, found his corpse.”

“Geez,” you whistle, continuing to read data from the FPS scanner. “Um, traces of Kalax were detected on his hands. It’s still in his bloodstream, too.”

Rick’s brow furrows. “E-Even after eighteen days? Must’ve been a strong dosage, or— or something.”

“Yeah, or something,” you mutter, squinting. You shake your head and keep your grip tight on the FPS scanner. “Let’s check the kitchen.”

You head for the kitchen and almost make it to the doorway when Rick suddenly grabs your arm, effectively stopping you. You shoot him a glare and open your mouth to argue at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s staring down at the ground as he says, “W-Well, looks like we f— there’s the murder weapon.”

You wiggle your arm out of his grip and kneel down in front of the weapon— a steel pipe. You scan the length of it with the FPS scanner, waiting in suspense for the results. When they do come up, you find them more surprising than expected.

Rick sees the confusion evident in your features, shifting nervously on his feet. “W-What is it?”

"The Rick’s blood is on the steel pipe, so it must be the murder weapon,” you say slowly. “But what I don’t understand is… there’s a Morty’s fingerprints on it, and the Morty is _his original Morty._ ”

It takes Rick a moment to comprehend what you’ve just said, but then his eyes widen. “Th-The Rick took his Morty a-and they traveled here to live on the Citadel, bu-but then he was killed by his own Morty?”

“Seems that way,” you say somberly, standing up again while keeping your eyes on the FPS scanner. “There has to be a reason, though. Mortys don’t just kill their Ricks.” You’ve dealt with Mortys killing Mortys, Ricks killing Mortys, but this is a first.

“H-He could still be here,” Rick says after a moment of silence.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Check a bedroom, bathroom— anything. I’ll see if I can find anything else in the kitchen.”

“Got it.” He then walks off to do as told.

You do a quick once-over of the room— an overturned chair, blood on the floor that the FPS scanner picks up as the deceased Rick’s, a knife resting on the counter. You fix the chair before moving around the table in the center of the room to check out the knife. Scanning it brings up the dead Rick’s fingerprints on the handle and small splotches of his Morty’s blood on the blade.

“Rick!” you shout, and the few other officer Ricks in the living room all simultaneously ask which one you want. “None of you guys!”

Rick, your partner, hurries back into the room. “Y-You called?”

“Did you find anything?” you ask him.

“Um, the— the bedroom was ransacked but I didn’t find anything w-worth mentioning in there,” Rick explains slowly, and you know that means he’s about to say something ‘worth mentioning’. “A-As for the bathroom, the sink’s broken so there’s a bunch of water a-a-all over the place in there. That's where— That must be where the Morty got the pipe from. And I found a r-ripped yellow shirt, jeans, and some shoes laying across the toilet seat. There’s also some blood in the shower, though I’m not sure wh-who it belongs to.”

“The Morty’s.” You’re certain, and now you notice a trail of blood leading from the bathroom, into the kitchen, then down a separate hallway. You point out your discovery to Rick. “That’s our best bet,” you tell him.

Rick nods, pulling out his flashlight and taking the lead. You set the FPS scanner down on the counter; you know it’ll only get in your way now. Then, the two of you follow the trail of blood down the dark and humid hallway, stopping where it ends. Rick shines the light everywhere, freezing on a chair that has a leg broken off. He tilts the flashlight upward, revealing an attic with a bloody handprint on the trap door.

“Must’ve broken the chair on his hurry up,” you say out loud. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still up there.”

“I’ll give you a boost,” Rick says, setting the flashlight down on the floor. He crouches down then hoists you up, and you slide the door over before climbing in. Once you’re up, he tells you he’s going to get a chair and that he’ll be right back, wait for him. But you suddenly feel uneasy.

“Stay down there,” you whisper, and he gives you a look, so you think of an excuse he'll fall for. “I doubt this Morty wants to see a Rick right now.”

He grumbles in thought to himself for a moment then hesitantly nods. “F-Fine, just… stay safe.”

You smirk down at him. “But, of course,” you say. You then stand and give him a little wave before venturing into the attic. You decide against taking out your flashlight just yet because you don’t want to potentially scare the Morty away. A window in the back of the room provides just the right amount of lighting for you to see outlines of boxes and other oddities.

You squint, thinking you see a figure, but it’s just a mannequin. But then you hear the unmistakable pitter patter of feet, and a swivel chair is knocked to the floor. You swiftly chase after the sound, running into a few cobwebs here and there. You don’t worry about it, however, quietly approaching the corner you’re sure the assumed Morty must have run off to. And you’re right—you spot tufts of curly brown hair hiding behind a stack of cardboard boxes.

“I know you’re there,” you say carefully, barely hearing a sharp intake of breath.

“Y-Y-You’re not a R-Rick,” the Morty stammers, his voice small as he peeks out at you.

“I’m not,” you confirm.

“W-What are you d-doing here?”

“You killed your Rick,” you reply softly, taking a gentle and subtle step towards him. “Why?”

“I-I-I was d-defending myself,” he whispers, stepping out from behind the boxes. His hands remain on them still, ready to hide behind them if need be. “H-He-He was… He was g-gonna s-s- _sell_  me.”

Your brow furrows as you take another small step forward. “Sell you?”

The Morty stays silent for a moment. You’re sure that means he’s done talking, but then he speaks again, quieter, “P-P- _Please_ … Don’t tell them y-you found me.”

“Morty, I—”

“Th-There’s a Morty Town L-L-Loco. H-H-He said he knows a way o-off the Citadel,” he rambles on. “I-I-If you take me in, I’ll never— I’ll n-never be f-fr-free.”

You don’t say anything. You have to take this Morty in for questioning, even if you’d rather let him go. Besides, there’s no way he’d be able to get past the multitude of officers downstairs without being spotted. Instead, you say, “I’m gonna turn my flashlight on now. Is that okay?”

The Morty doesn’t respond again, so you take that as a yes. You unlatch the flashlight from your belt and press the button that turns it on, shining it directly on him. His pupils dilate at the sudden light, and he almost curls in on himself, squinting at the harshness.

You want to cry, maybe even vomit, at the sight before you. This Morty is skinnier than skinny, like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. You now know why there had been tattered clothes in the downstairs bathroom, because he had been forced into wearing a hot pink laced bra with matching panties. His left eye is jammed shut and almost _black_  and there are multitudes of other bruises peppering the skin of his arms and legs. There’s a piece of trash bag tightly wrapped around his right bicep, so you can only assume that’s where the cut he’d bled out from had been made.

“Did—” you gulp. “Did _he_ do this to you..?”

The Morty nods, tears welling up in his eyes. “F-F-For months, he— he kept me here a-a-and…” His body begins to wrack with sobs as he grabs his arms.

“Morty, come… come here,” you say, your arms spread slightly in what you hope is a welcoming manner. He lurches forward with a cry and wraps his arms around your torso, squeezing as tightly as his feeble arms will allow. You rub his back soothingly and let him cry, silent tears falling from your eyes as well. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper. You pull a needle out of your breast pocket, swiftly injecting it into his neck. He’s out like a light within seconds.

You put the empty needle back where you’d gotten it from, scooping the Morty up into your arms and holding him close. “I’m so sorry,” you say again, heading for the exit. “I’m gonna fix this, I swear…”

“H-Hey, is everything okay up there?” Rick calls up to you from downstairs.

“I… I found the Morty,” you say hesitantly, standing over the trap door.

Rick gazes up at you and the Morty in your arms. “Oh, shit,” he hisses. He quickly helps you and the unconscious boy in your arms down to the ground floor. He looks over the Morty quickly, and you instinctively jerk away. Rick looks a little hurt, but confused more than anything.

“I-I’ve got him,” you say. You walk out of the house without another word.

* * *

**[end of 'ignorance'.]**


	4. Grievance

Time

AM **1:12:** 09

* * *

 

You stifle a yawn with a cup of coffee that tastes burnt as your foot taps impatiently against the stale gray tiled flooring. You’re used to long nights, but you haven’t slept right in days— maybe weeks, possibly even more, though you’ve lost count —and it’s starting to take a toll on you. The hot liquid warms your insides as you swallow, and you blink hard to wake yourself up a bit more.

 

You look at your surroundings— a few commercial posters catch your eye, specifically one promoting a new flavor of wafer cookies, but not for too long. There are variations of Ricks and Mortys, some wearing masks on their faces due to a cough. One Morty is freaking out, screaming and crying while blood gushes from a missing arm, and his Rick tells him to _calm the fuck down, Morty, it’s not that bad._ Of course, no one’s in a rush to help him because he’s just a Morty. That thought makes you frown as you take another sip of coffee.

 

You feel like you should help him, yell at the receptionist Rick to get the poor kid into ICU. But, you don’t. You already know that your attempts would be fruitless, because the receptionist is a _Rick_ , and _Ricks don’t care about Mortys._

 

You make a poor attempt at distracting yourself from the Morty’s wailing, staring up at the fluorescent lighting. This brings on the beginnings of a migraine, so you opt for closing your eyes, and you cover your ears and clench your teeth. Tears sting your eyes, so you cast your gaze down to the pristine linoleum floor. You blink a few times when a pair of feet suddenly appear in your line of vision.

 

You hesitantly uncover your ears, eyes trailing up this person’s slender form and landing on the police badge before moving up to their face. It’s your partner, and he’s returned with a coffee and bad news.

 

“They won’t let us in until he’s wo-woken up and had some— and eaten some food,” Rick tells you. He doesn’t make a move to sit down in the empty plastic chair beside you, instead watching a nurse Morty carefully help the one-armed Morty onto a stretcher and wheel him into another room. He continues staring after them, even when they’re gone, so you can only assume he’s deep in thought.

 

“You should sit down,” you say quietly.

 

Rick turns, looks at you, and doesn’t say anything as he sits to your left. He throws his head back and drinks his coffee like it’s a shot. The two of you gaze out into the distance in silence.

Your leg continues its nervous bouncing as you fidget with your badge, biting your lower lip.

 

“Y-Y-You know, you shouldn’t be— you shouldn’t worry so much,” Rick says, watching your hands. “He’s gonna be okay. Once he wakes up, w-we’ll ask him a few questions then we can go home for the night.”

 

You rest your hands in your lap and stare down at them. “What…” You pause for a moment, feeling Rick’s eyes on you. “What’s gonna happen to him once he’s better?”

 

He hesitates for a second, thinking, perhaps. “I… I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

 

“They’ll probably shoot him out into space, or some sick shit like that,” you mutter, your voice taking a hostile tone.

 

“No, I’ll make sure that— I-I won’t let that happen,” Rick says, leaning forward in an attempt to make eye contact, but you turn your head away. You don’t know if you can trust him; he’s a Rick, after all. Ricks are selfish and couldn’t care less what happens to Mortys. He may seem nice, but he’s probably just trying to get into your pants. That’s what all the Ricks do.

 

“Yeah,” you reply half-heartedly. You close your eyes and rest your head against the cream-colored wall, a hint that you’re done talking to him. Your mind goes numb as the noises around you fade along with your consciousness.

  
  
  


You feel yourself gasp, blinking slowly in attempt to take in your surroundings. You’re… somewhere; you don’t know _where_. You can’t feel solid ground, you can’t see it either. All you see is the vast black and purple and blue of space and billions of twinkling stars. It’s beautiful.

 

And you’re suffocating.

 

You can’t control your body, but you can feel yourself clawing at your own throat, as if that will bring oxygen to your lungs. Your vision is hazy with tears, crystalizing in the cold of the universe. You’re floating, kicking and thrashing in a panic. Your brain counts down from fifteen, then you die.

 

Well, that’s what you can only assume happens.

 

You wake up, taking in big gulps of air, hacking and coughing as if you’d been drowning. You double over and barely register a hand on your back, a worried tone asking if you’re alright. Your breathing is shallow because it felt _so real_ . You _felt_ yourself running out of oxygen, dying, like you were there. You’re cold still, shivering.

 

You’re finally in the real world again, breath evening out as your eyes open again. You’re on the floor. Rick is crouched by your side, eyes wide and panicked. The sound of him saying your name, like it’s a question, is finally audible.

 

You sit up, and his eyes never leave your trembling form.

 

“W-W-What the hell was that?” Rick asks, exasperated, a hand on your back and the other gripping your bicep. “One second, you’re fast asleep, a-a-and then— then you’re on the floor.”

 

“Uh…” _I had a nightmare._ The thought sounds stupid in your mind, as if you’re a child who’d just woken up from a bad dream, only to carefully tiptoe into their parents’ room to crawl into bed, simply to feel safe.

 

You shake him off and clamber to your feet. He looks up at you, shocked. “Nothing, don’t worry about it,” you grumble dismissively. You sit back down in your plastic chair, watching from the corner of your eye as he hesitantly does the same.

 

“I, uh, got some— managed to snag some files,” Rick tells you, his voice a bit quiet as he nervously fidgets with a peach-colored folder he’d picked up from beneath his chair. He flips it open and scoots closer to you so you can see it too.

 

The first image you see is of the deceased Rick— from Dimension 1B-87, identified as ‘Retro Rick’. He’d come to live on the Citadel with his Morty after his home dimension was overthrown by… giant floating baby heads?

 

You flip the page so you can check out the Morty’s files, your eyes growing wide. You blink repeatedly in utter shock, because the Morty in the picture looks _nothing_ like the Morty you’d rescued; there’s no cuts and bruises to be seen on his body, and there’s an actual smile on his face. Instead of the terrible lingerie he’d be forced into, the Morty in this image is wearing a yellow tank top beneath a hot pink see-through shawl, green shorts over bright blue tights, pink leg-warmers with white shoes, and a green sweatband— very eighties-esque.

 

“That… that can’t be the same kid,” you murmur in disbelief, brows furrowed.

 

“Retro Morty from Dimension 1B-87, just like the— same as his Rick,” Rick says, closing the folder. “I was just as surprised when I— when I first saw it.”

 

You clench your fists and grit your teeth. “That bastard deserved what happened to him.”

 

Rick looks surprised— you can see from the corner of your eye. “He— I mean, y-you’re not wrong,” he says hesitantly, staring straight ahead after a brief moment of observing you.

 

About five minutes pass before a Morty nurse approaches the two of you, hugging a clipboard to his chest. “Y-Y-You can see your M-Morty now,” he stammers. You don’t correct him, don’t tell him that 1B-87 isn’t _your_ Morty. Why waste your breath? “H-He’s been awake for almost— a-about half an hour now. He’s eaten, but I, uh— I don’t know how he’ll respond. He refuses to let any— any Ricks near him.”

 

You glance at your partner as you stand, and he nods back. “Alright. Take us to him,” you tell the Morty.

 

“F-Follow me, officers,” Nurse Morty stutters, grip tightening on his clipboard as he turns on his heel. You and Rick follow close behind.

 

He leads you down a long hallway with beds and curtain dividers on each side. Ricks and Mortys alike occupy almost every single bed, some fast asleep while others wail and moan or relax and watch Interdimensional Cable. You’re almost to the end of the hallway when you hear shouting.

 

“G-Get the fuck away from me, y-y-you asshole!” a Morty screeches.

 

“Calm the fuck— Calm your tits, Morty! I’m juUUEGhust giving you some medicine. I-It’ll ease the pain,” a Rick responds in exasperation.

 

“W-W-What’s going on here?” Nurse Morty asks as you arrive.

 

“S-Son a bitch woOOUGhon’t let me inject the— give him his medicine,” the Rick, a doctor one, responds. He’s holding a needle in his right hand, waving it around precariously as he rants.

 

“Y-Y-You— He’s trying to fucking k-kill me!” the Morty in the bed shouts, panic and anger evident in his voice.

 

Doctor Rick swivels around to face him, arms still waving sporadically. “No, I’m not, you idiot!”

 

You lean to your right a bit in an attempt to see past the doctor and nurse. “1B-87?” you ask.

 

“I-Is this your MoOOURGhty?” the doctor questions, belching in your face.

 

You grimace and fight the urge to cover your nose. “No, he’s not. My partner and I are in charge of his case,” you reply.

 

“Fine, whaAAUGhtever,” the doctor says, waving a hand dismissively and using the other to tuck the needle into his pocket. “H-Have at it. I’m tired— I’m sick of his shit.”

 

“Yeah, thanks,” you deadpan, watching him leave with a grumble of something along the lines of _this is why I never had kids_. “What a dick.”

 

“Th-That’s Ricks for ya,” Nurse Morty sighs before remembering your partner. His head shoots up as his eyes widen in panic. “N-N-No offense!”

 

“None taken,” Rick says, giving the nurse a pat on the head. “We’ll take it from here, Morty.”

 

“O-Okay!” Nurse Morty beams happily before running off.

 

“Um… maybe you should head back out to the waiting room,” you say, gently placing a hand on Rick’s right shoulder. He looks down at your hand then to your face with a look of confusion. You drop your hand and add, “1B-87 won’t let you ask questions— he absolutely despises Ricks —and he most likely won’t talk to me if you’re here.”

 

Rick seems hesitant for a moment, and you’re worried he’ll argue, but he simply nods. “I-I understand,” he says, and he gives your own shoulder a light pat. “Stay safe, partner.”

 

You nod back and watch him leave, make sure he’s not sticking around and eavesdropping, then carefully take a seat at the foot of 1B-87 Morty’s bed. His hair is less messy, albeit still disheveled. Instead of the lingerie, he’s now clad in a long-sleeved pale blue shirt— one you might see on a Rick —beneath a hospital gown. His bruises are well hidden, besides the ones on his face, and there’s a white eye patch over his left eye.

 

“A-A-Are you the same o-one from the attic?” he asks after a moment.

 

“Yeah, that’s me,” you say with a small smile. “You’re Retro Morty, right? From dimension 1B-87?”

 

"Uh, y-yeah. Y-Y-You can just call me 1B though," he tells you. "I-I'd rather not... go by R-R-Retro Morty a-anymore."

 

You look down for a second to think before facing him again. "Let's give you a new name then."

 

"N-New name?" 

 

You smile. "Yeah. It'll help you move on." 

 

The Morty furrows his brow, a hand coming up to rest over his new eye patch. "Patch," he says with confidence. "I-I-I'd like to be called P-Patch." 

 

"Patch," you try out, enjoying the small smile on his face. "I like it. Why don't you tell me about your eye patch?" 

 

Patch wrings his wrists, frowning lightly. "M-My left eye was too m-m-messed up," he replies. "Th-The doctor's couldn't fix it. O-O-Or maybe they just d-don't care. N-None of the Ricks here are real d-doctors anyways." 

 

"You're right about that one, kid," you mutter, pulling a notepad out of your vest and a pen from your breast pocket. You click it a few times and scrawl the name Patch on the top of the page. "Alright, do you mind if I ask you some questions relating to the case?" 

 

Patch seems hesitant, and you can audibly hear him gulp. "G-Go ahead." 

 

"I need you to tell me everything," you say. "From when you left your dimension to the very end." 

 

He nods solemnly and he tells you his story. As ridiculous as it sounds, he tells you the same thing his file says. He and his Rick were forced to leave their home dimension because it had been overthrown by giant floating baby heads. With no backup dimension available, they escaped to the Citadel and moved into a home there. He tells you that everything had been fine before then, but when they moved to the Citadel his Rick started going out and coming back late. He'd either be drunk off his ass or high on Kalax. He says his Rick blamed him for the demise of their home dimension, and that he suddenly started taking his anger out on him. 

 

"H-H-He would... He would a-abuse me every day. H-He said he should've l-left me to rot with m-my family back in our dimension," Patch explains, a faraway look in his eye. "I-I never argued or f-f-fought back. But he c-came home r-r- _reaaally_ angry one night. He— H-He forced me into that t-t- _terrible_ outfit! He said h-he was gonna s-sell me for big m-money, that a M-Morty Town Loco had bootleg portal fluid, a-a way off this g-g-godforsaken place." 

 

You scrawled more notes onto your pad, chewing your lower lip. "So you killed him," you state. 

 

Patch shudders with a nod. "I-I-I had to!"

 

"Do you know who he was going to... um, sell you to?" 

 

"Y-Yeah! I-I-It was another Rick," Patch exclaims. "Um, h-hi-his name was—" He jerks out of nowhere, and you swear you hear a faint zapping sound. His face goes blank as he stares at the curtain, seeming to be completely unaware of his surroundings.

 

You don't touch him, afraid it might trigger something. You softly say, "Patch?"

 

Patch blinks hard with his one eye and looks at you vacantly. His eye looks glossed over and his brow furrows once more with confusion. "I-I-I'm sorry, what?"

 

"You were about to tell me the name of the Rick?"

 

He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck tenderly, that empty look remaining in his gaze. "I'm sorry," he apologizes again, "I don't remember." 

 

You set your pad down in your lap, your own brow knit with concern. "Why are you rubbing your neck like that?" 

 

He gives you a blank stare. "He had a chip installed in the back of my neck." He doesn't stutter. "Uh, sometimes it short-circuits or something and I'll black out." 

 

You add that to your notes and hiss, " _Motherfucker..._ " because you just lost your only lead.

______________________________________

**[end of grievance.]**

 

  



End file.
